I place my hand on her arm. She stops her leg lefts. I’m not sure if she stops out of compassion for me, or relief that she has an excuse to stop.

“I know, Jem. You and Henry and the social worker and my lawyer don’t have to remind me constantly. I’ll support Li if she changes her mind. I really will. I’ll just go back to the more traditional route I was in before she came along. It’s okay.”

“Sorry.”

We share a smile that manages to mix excitement, wistfulness, and pain.

“Not content yet?”

“Nope. I’m the only expectant mother ever to lose three pounds.”

“What’s Joe saying about this? It’s going to change a lot of things. You’re not going to be able to meet him at odd hours, or on a moment’s notice.” Jemma looks at me carefully. “Or bail him out of jail when he gets a DUI and doesn’t want his wife to know.”

“That only happened once!”

She gives me a look that manages to mix pained pity with drill-sergeant grit.

I look away. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes, gotta go.”

And I roll up my mat. I’m never going to have abs.

It’s hopeless.

* * *

5:30. I’ve got to leave work now if I’m going to meet Joe at my apartment in an hour. There’s plenty of wine, and vodka in the freezer if he wants his favorite martini. But I need to stop at the Broadway Market for olives, some chèvre, and those little toast crackers he likes.

And I need to do a little picking up before he gets there. Joe doesn’t like disorder, and there’s a black lace bra drip-drying in the bathroom. A wine glass and a coffee cup in the kitchen sink.

And oh my god, I left my swan charging on the bedside table. Joe may be my boyfriend, but every woman needs a battery-operated backup, right?

Jemma’s words haunt me. She’s right. Joe has zero interest in kids. I know this.

Yet I’m adopting anyhow.

I admit it: I have a paradoxical inner life. I own it.

I am stuffing the mystery shop report into my bag when my phone screen lights up with a text coming in.

Joe: I can’t believe this, have to cancel tonight

Shit.

Shit, I type.

I know, SO sorry, have to work late. This acquisition. Joe is representing a company that’s buying an Italian textile factory, and the international laws are complicated.

I text back a frown.

But the divorce lawyer said there’s been movement, he replied. Honey, I’m so close.

I smile. He can’t see it, of course, but I do. No worries. Poor you, don’t stay too late. Call me later, I answer.

Damn it. He’s been doing this lately. That acquisition might be great for his client’s bottom line, but it’s been hell on my libido.

At least I don’t have to race to the market. But I was really looking forward to seeing him.

And feeling him.

And him feeling me.

And who knows when he’ll have another free evening.

Henry and Jemma’s gentle (and not-so-gentle) chiding runs through my mind. I know I should dump him. I know I cater to him. I know I accept less. But I’ve invested all these years in him. You don’t spend three years fighting your own instincts and giving in to this kind of passion only to walk away, never knowing if you were almost across the finish line.

He showed me more divorce paperwork last week. Well, a blurry photo of papers on his phone, at least. He’s so close.

Poor Joe, working so hard, and now I have nothing to do tonight. I wonder if my swan is done charging?

He might be working late, but surely he has time for a quickie. Everyone has time for a quickie, right? That’s why they’re called quickies. Short, hot, sweet—

And something.

Something is always better than nothing.

I’ll stop at the market anyway, and get him some lovely things to eat. Cheese and crackers, some fruit maybe, and one or two of those chocolate shortbread cookies he loves. I’ll make a basket, how fun! Maybe I’ll put in an IPA or two, and I can buy a little vase with a huge Gerbera daisy…

His office is closed by the time I get there, but the security guard remembers me from my days as a client. He smiles and waves me in.

I stop in the ladies’ room in the lobby. Brush my hair, add fresh lipstick.

Idea: private label lipstick line for O. Color names like cOral Sex. Branded line of lubes with hot names like O Now!

I add a spray of my lemon verbena perfume at the base of my neck, and on both wrists. I change from my street shoes into heels and smooth the tops of my thigh highs. I slip off my thong and put it in my bag.

One more spritz of perfume, under my skirt. Just in case.

And up in the elevator, to the fourteenth floor.

The door slides open. I have always loved after-hours offices. Most of the offices dark, no phones ringing or machines running, the view of city lights below. No one watching me.

Creative freedom.

Picnic basket over my arm, I head down the hall to Joe’s office, my hips swinging like a runway model. My high heels make no sound on the grey carpet. This will be a total surprise. Arousal twins with anticipation. My thighs buzz and I am so ready. As I get closer, I can hear faint music, that jazz station he loves. Another bonus of working after everyone else has gone home is putting on your own music.

My pulse races now. I love to create special moments, and this feels so much like our first time, all that desire built up for so long and finally, unexpectedly, released.

And released.

And, if all goes well…released again.

The memory of our first time seizes me as I finish the long walk down the hallway.

So beautiful it was worth waiting for. That’s what he told me.

Pretty much every sexual fantasy I ever had came true in that one unforgettable hour. Until he had to leave for a business dinner. I was the appetizer.

That was three years ago. Sex has never been quite that hot since. But tonight…

I slow as I get closer to his office, my pulse throbbing between my legs, a smile on my face as I imagine his delight at my little surprise.

Hmm. There’s a black sweater slung over the side of a cubicle. Someone must have gone home and forgotten it.

And oh, that’s odd, one black high heel. In the doorway to the conference room.

Then I’m in the doorway, peering in.

At Joe, leaning back against the enormous limed oak table. Our table.